


Green Glass

by HPFandom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Drama, First Time, Gen, M/M, Romance, Sexual Content, Slash sex, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-23
Updated: 2010-11-30
Packaged: 2018-09-30 04:44:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10153943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HPFandom_archivist/pseuds/HPFandom_archivist
Summary: Harry comes into contact with Tom Riddle's Diary at a very young age, and his life with the Dursley's is consequently changed. Tom is the only positive influence in his life, even though he doesn't entirely trust everything the journal says. In fact, he's fairly certain it's keeping secrets from him.





	1. Petunia Triumphant

**Author's Note:**

> Note from SeparatriX, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [HP Fandom](http://fanlore.org/wiki/HP_Fandom_\(archive\)), which was closed for health and financial reasons. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [HP Fandom collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hpfandom/profile).

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
Note: this story is crossposted at fanfiction.net under my other penname, moth gypsy.

**S**

Harry Potter was four years old the first and last time that the Headmaster of Hogwarts dropped by Little Winging to check on him. It was exactly noon when a knock at the door had Mrs. Dursley rising from the table, blotting at her mouth with a napkin, and asking, "Vernon, are you expecting company?"

The largest Dursley muffled a negative reply around his mouthful of pulled pork and watched his wife exit the kitchen, walk down the front hall, and quickly peer through the eye-hole in the door. She gave a terrible start and hastily reached for the doorknob, only to retract her hand as though burnt. 

"Who is it Pet?"

"Oh, _no one,_ " the thin woman replied, voice much higher than normal.

"If it's a solicitor just tell them we aren't interested."

Petunia made for the door again and paused, ringing her hands. The doorbell rang twice, in a rather jaunty fashion, and the woman glanced back at her husband, son, and nephew who were all watching her curiously. "Well," said Vernon, "get on with it."

Smiling in a strained way which was really more of a grimace, the woman opened the door by a few inches and whispered "Yes? What is it?"

"Ah, Mrs. Dursley. May I come in?” The voice drifted to the kitchen, light and exuberant despite obviously belonging to someone of very old age.

Vernon Dursley rose from his place at the table, a bit of brown sauce at the corner of his lip, and made his way towards the door. "Who..."

In walked a man wearing the most unusual clothes to ever grace the entrance hall of Number 4, Private Drive (although no one had given their assent to his entrance). Albus Dumbledore had chosen that day to wear puce yellow robes, hemmed with purple and gold begonias upon which landed the occasional hummingbird. He smiled lightly at everyone in the house, his eyes twinkling particularly bright when they landed upon the Potter heir. "I see Mr. Potter is coming along well," he addressed Petunia, "I have dropped in on this fine Tuesday to check on the boy-"

"Yes," Petunia interrupted him, and then commanded in a terribly sweet voice, "Boys, go play upstairs while Daddy and I talk with the man."

Dudley, already too spoiled to obey his mother under any circumstances, protested immediately, "But Mummy, I'm not done eating-"

"Upstairs! If you're good we'll take you both out for ice cream later, alright?" 

"Alright." The rotund boy agreed reluctantly, and added as he trudged up the stairs, "But why do I have to play with _him?_ "

"Dudley! Be nice to your cousin. Upstairs. Now."

Confused, hungry, and curious about the flamboyant old man in the sitting room, Dudley stomped to his room and slammed the door to the best of his four year old ability.

Downstairs Petunia's face twitched into a horrible parody of a smile. "He's going through a phase," she said, eyeing the wizard as he sat on the loveseat. She stood next to her husband who appeared to be deeply offended by the old man's very presence.

An awkward silence ensued, while Dumbledore surveyed his surroundings with apparent fascination, until Vernon drew himself out of his shock and said, "Who the bloody hell are you, and what are you doing in my house?"

"Ah, forgive my rudeness," the headmaster said, "I am Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and the magical guardian of young Mr. Harry Potter. I couldn't trouble you for tea, could I?" he said with a pointed glance towards the kitchen where the Dursley's lunch was growing cold. "And perhaps something sweet to chew on? It has been a long journey."

Vernon did not appear to have any sort of response to the strange proclamation, and Petunia was shooting nervous glances between her husband, Dumbledore, and the stairs.

"What is it you wanted to know about Harry? We've been taking care of him. Fed him, clothed him, provided everything he could need."

"Oh, I don't doubt it," Dumbledore said with an indulgent smile. "I had actually hoped to talk to Harry himself-"

"He's afraid of strangers." Petunia hastily cut in, "And older... people." She glanced at the ghastly yellow robes he was wearing as though she were afraid of them.

"Well then, perhaps you could answer a few questions for me." the man said and gestured for the Dursleys to sit.

"What is this, an inquisition?" Vernon demanded angrily.

"Now, now, darling," Petunia said. Neither of them moved.

"I want to know who this man is and what he is doing in my house!"

Petunia addressed Dumbledore as though she had not heard her husband. "What do you want to know?"

The headmaster's smile hardened a bit and he asked "How is the boy doing? Has he adjusted well to living in this home?"

Petunia settled into a contrived and businesslike congeniality. "He is a part of the family. Him and Dudley usually get along very well."

"He doesn't have nightmares? Have there been any behavioral problems?"

Vernon started to reply, but Petunia cut him off once again. "We are all fine. Harry is fine. He doesn't remember anything.”

Dumbledore seemed to consider her words. His smile was gone, and the twinkle in his eye had become a piercing glint. Finally he asked "Can you tell me any of his interests?"

It was obviously a test, and Petunia paled at the implications. "Books." She gritted out, "He likes reading." Of course this was a lie. Petunia Dursley did not know a thing about her nephew's interests, and Harry was, in fact, unable to read. He could recognize a few letters of the alphabet (learned from the educational toys that Dudley never played with), and he didn't go to pre-school with his cousin. The Dursleys had made no attempt to educate him beyond basic communication.

"I see," Dumbledore said with a hard edge to his voice. "Well then, unless refreshments are forthcoming, I shall take my leave."

Petunia was more than happy to see him out, and she clutched the open door as though afraid it would accidentally close and never open again. As the headmaster exited he added with a mischievous twinkle, "Perhaps you could buy him some books for his birthday- It is coming up, isn't it?"

"Yes." Petunia said, and closed the door in his face.

The Dursleys did not take their son and nephew out for ice cream later. They did not, in fact, leave the house for the rest of the day. Dudley threw a colossal fit, and Harry was banished to the cupboard indefinitely. 

Petunia had a brief conversation with her husband, which devolved at the end to constipated shouts of indignation. Harry could hear them through the wall of the stairs, and knew that they were talking about him. He also knew that he would not be allowed to eat at the table for some time. After all, it was a dangerous place to eat. Anyone could walk right in the front door and see him, a perfect oddity, disgracing his aunt and uncle's presence with his freakishness. Unfortunately Harry believed this, although he did think with a bit of spite that his cousin was not anything to be respected. More like pushed down the stairs.

He rolled over with a smile, pondering whether his fat cousin would fall more like a slinky or a pudding.

**S**

It was early in June, and while Petunia had already done most of the birthday shopping for her 'dear Diddums,' the boy had seen something in a commercial which he absolutely had to have, and would not be happy without. So Petunia was in town for some last minute gift gathering. A week had passed since the disruptive visit from the Man Whose Name Wasn't Spoken in the Dursley Household, and things had settled back into a modicum of normalcy. Of course, she had no intention of going out of her way to comply with the... Man's wishes. But as she strode from store to store, tired, anxious, and more than a little fearful for her families safety, it occurred to her that she might actually do something about it.

She feared they were watching the house.

So, once she had found the deluxe toy her son wanted so dearly, she stopped at a second hand book store. It was on the way home, and she had never been to the place before. It had a large sign out front with books and a smiling child. _Let them see,_ she thought angrily. _Let them see all that we do for that ungrateful wretch._

"Can I help you?"

She was startled out of her thoughts by a young man, hunched over, quiet spoken, and peering at her through a pair of thick glasses.

"No," she replied curtly, and tried to figure out where to start. Her eyes landed immediately on a desk piled high with children's books and a sign reading "Half Off." 

She stood looking at the books for a few minutes, hands clasped together above her navel. Anyone looking would have been concerned for her mental health, for she was gazing at the brightly colored books as though they were all written in a foreign language. At length she picked one up, sporting a blank, brown leather cover and binding. She neither opened it or searched for a title, but picked a bit at the price sticker which read £1.00.

She brought it up to the counter and said, "This'll do. It's half off," as though the man were not aware, or might try to pull one over on her, "so I'll only be paying £.50."

"Oh." He set a book down himself, and grabbed the journal to inspect it. "This wasn't suppose to be over there, but-" he added hastily, "I'll give it to you for half off. It's £.56 with tax."

Petunia sniffed as though the entire transaction were highly distasteful to her, and started to rummage through her purse. "I have exact change."

"Bit of a funny story, actually," he said, "this book was sold to me by the funniest guy. Really strange- told me to call him _Dung,_ and was dressed like-" the man stopped when he noticed the woman staring at him. She looked as though he had called _her_ funny and strange.

They ended the transaction quickly, and Petunia returned home triumphant.


	2. Things Begin

  
Author's notes: Harry makes contact with Tom Riddles diary.  


* * *

**S**

July thirty-fist rolled around, hot and muggy. Windows and doors thrown open, the houses of Private Drive resembled can-can dancers displaying their insides to the street. A fan in the living room whirred away, pulling hot air in and pushing hot air out. The cupboard was dark.

That was one of the things he hated most about the cupboard (when all his chores were done and laying in the shadowy grass was just a memory). No matter how hot it got, no matter how the house swelled and creaked and filled with stagnant, putrid dampness, the cupboard was dark.

It was particularly frustrating on this day, though, because Harry had been given something. After he'd finished his chores and consumed his paltry dinner of green beans and bread, Aunt Petunia had thrust it at him and said, _"This is for you. It's a book for your birthday."_

He'd only inspected it for a minute before he was banished for the night, and was at somewhat of a loss. Being four years old and not given any books before, he didn't know much about them. He did know, however, that it was unusual for a book not to have pictures (or words, for that matter). Indeed, it was quite blank.

So he tucked it in the crevice between his bed and the wall, and tried to fall asleep despite the sweat that ran off his back and the corners of his arms and legs.

A year passed, and nothing untoward occurred. No more birthday presents were forthcoming, but Harry managed to collect the stubs of several crayons (two blues, a green, yellow, brown, and an entire white) which Dudley left out from time to time. He used them to draw pictures in the blank book. He entertained fantasies of his art being put up on the fridge, but knew that his relatives would only be angry that he'd stolen from Dudley. And anyways, the drawings disappeared promptly after he made them. It had been slow at first, they'd vanished overnight, so he had to wonder if the pages hadn't been lost or torn out. He questioned whether he had really drawn in the book, or if he had only imagined it. Then, after a few days, the pages seemed to waken and absorb the pigment faster. Now when he sat down to draw he had to do it fast, because the wobbly strokes of color faded shortly after he laid them down.

He didn't mind, after all, he never ran out of paper. And _sometimes_ the drawings came back.

Five year old Harry was a frugal child. He was glad for the magic paper (although once a movie on the telly had a magic book, and his uncle had gotten really mad and shouted that there was no such thing as magic, and then turned it off), and didn't even mind that he could only draw when no one was around, because his crayons hardly wore out.

He did what he was told, and tried to do it well, and hoped that his aunt and uncle would tell him he was good. He thought that that movie about the book was wrong, and that it probably deserved his uncle's anger. He wondered why he had to sleep in the cupboard, and what made him so different from his cousin (apart from size). Harry knew that his book was magic, and wondered why his aunt would give him a magic book when she didn't even give him new clothes.

S

Harry was shifting from one flowerbed to another, watering can gripped in both hands, when the frail, rain coat encased form of Mrs. Figg approached. She sent a smile his way and he darted around the side of the house to enter through the back porch door.

"Aunt Petunia!" He called, "Aunt Petunia!"

The woman in question poked her pointed face towards the kitchen, lips drawn in exasperation. "Stop shouting! What?"

"Mrs. Figg's in the front yard." He said, abashed. The Dursleys sent him to stay with the old lady whenever they had to leave town, and she frightened Harry. She smelled like cabbage and cat litter. She also had the tendency to drone on about things he didn't know, and then stare at him with giant glazed eyes, as though she were conveying complex and foreign concepts to him. And then she'd smile and forget whatever they had been talking about.

On cue a knock echoed through the house. Petunia glared at him as though he had invited the lady over, and then hurried to the door. She spent a split second smoothing her hair and blouse before swinging the door open and smiling widely.

"Mrs. Figg, what's the occasion?" The words were sweet enough, but still could have been mistaken for a demand.

"Mrs. Dursley," the old lady said, peaking through the doorframe, "I was just curious about Harry. It's September and I noticed he hasn't been to school."

Petunia smiled, if possible, even wider, and thought bitterly that indeed, it was September, and sunny, and utterly inappropriate weather for a rain coat. "We're home schooling him," she said, "he's terribly shy, and doesn't do well with other children."

Mrs. Figg deflated a bit and, with one last attempt to peer into the Dursley household, replied, "I'll be off then. If you ever need any assistance..."

"I shall contact you."

"Well, alright..." Mrs. Figg eyed number four, before turning and shuffling back down towards Wisteria Walk.

Petunia watched her go and then pulled the door shut. She turned on her heel and made it to the kitchen in four long strides. Harry stared up at her, sensing the Copious Amount of Trouble he was about to be in. His Aunt stared at him for several long moments before snapping, " _What_ are you doing with the watering can in the house?"

But before he could reply she'd cut him off. "Go finish your chores. And stay out of the front yard."

Harry did as he was told- or tried to, at least. It was a bit difficult to finish watering the flowers in the front without leaving the back. When he completed the task as well as he could he stowed the watering can in the garage, and then settled beneath the magnolia tree behind the house. It was the safest place next to his cupboard, because it was just tall enough to be out of the reach of his relatives, and Dudley couldn't climb.

It was too late in the year for blossoms, for which Harry mourned. In the spring they did a wonderful job of hiding him from view. Of course, being newly turned five he hadn't been climbing for long- he had learned right quick the first time Marge visited with her precious pedigree dogs. He was just dozing off when his Aunt called him in for dinner.

There was a slight nip in the air as he entered the house, the sun was setting and twilight cast shadows across the lawn. As he stood in the back door he fancied he saw figures shifting in the shadows, sinewy and amorphous. Then he noticed the table with four place settings- he'd been subjected to eating in his cupboard for some time after the incident with the strange old man.

Petunia was busy setting platters of food on the table, and Vernon Dursley was attempting to wrench his son from the living room telly. Harry stared at the four place settings as his family settled in around him, and then hesitantly took a seat. The Dursleys neither spoke to him nor made eye contact, but they did pass him the potatoes and chicken in turn. Unsure which he preferred- the solitude and dark of his cupboard, or the table where he went ignored, he ate in silence.

By contrast, Dudley couldn't seem to decide whether or not to cry over being taken from his show, or greedily gobble down his dinner. He settled for a bit of both, and angrily dribbled snot down his face when Harry shot him a look.

"Vernon, I've been thinking."

Harry turned his gaze to his aunt. Her tone was hesitant, as though she really didn't want to have whatever conversation she was starting.

"What is it, dear?"

"Well, it's just that the neighbors have been voicing their concerns. About Harry." She looked at him and Harry quickly averted his eyes.

"What's he done now?" Suddenly enraged, Vernon rounded on his nephew. Harry shrunk down in his seat a little.

"You know I take care of him all day, and the neighbors have noticed that he doesn't go to school like our Diddykins."

"Well how could he?" Shouted Vernon, "They didn't leave us any papers for the boy, he may as well not even exist!"

Terrified, Harry attempted to sink out of his chair. He intended to crawl under the rim of the table and escape from the dining room. He was torn between fear and curiosity. He didn't really know what sort of papers a person needed, but apparently there were people who had his. Or didn't have his, it was really hard to tell.

Just then his uncle noticed him leaving and snapped, "Boy! Clean up your dishes."

"Yes sir," Harry replied, and hurriedly put his plate in the sink. He rinsed it off and arranged it with his flatware in the dishwasher. He was prepared to leave a second time, but his uncle wouldn't have it.

"There are still dishes on the table, honestly do you expect us to do all the work?"

"No, Uncle Vernon." He scowled. He hated doing dishes. But he had become used to it. He was just putting the salad dressings away when his aunt spoke up again.

"We have to do something soon, Vernon, or people will start to talk."

"Just tell them he's daft." The man spat, "God knows it's true."

Upset that everyone was talking over him, Dudley let out a throaty wail and cried, "Mummy, I want desert!"

Harry waited until their attention was on Dudley and slipped out. He crept along the front hall, throwing a glance back to where his relatives were consuming some sort of gleaming and aromatic pie. They were quite engrossed in it as he darted into the sitting room. On the mantle above the fireplace was a small matchbox, and he snatched it up and hid it in the waist band of his pants, which were doubled up several times to fit him. He didn't think anyone would notice the matches missing, the fireplace wasn't, after all, an actual fireplace.

He made it back to his cupboard unnoticed and lay on his cot, the matchbox clutched to his chest. He listened to the Dursleys finish eating and move to the sitting room. They watched television for some time before dragging their son upstairs with promises that he could continue the show from his bed. Harry waited for as long as he dared before sitting up and fumbling in the dark.

For weeks he'd been snatching up tea lights and stowing them in the beams beneath the stairs. He took out a match and rolled it between his fingers, examining the shape and texture of the rounded tip. He'd seen his uncle light one before, and was apprehensive. Reviewing the memory he questioned whether or not he could duplicate the casual and vicious gesture that Vernon Dursley had executed so carelessly.

It took him several tries, in which he dropped one and it disappeared on the dark floor. The first one he managed to light burnt his fingertips, and he quickly put it out by smothering it with a pillow. It left an ugly smell in the air, and he could feel a ragged hole in the fabric it'd fallen on. At length he managed to light one and hold it to the white wick of a tea light. He blew the match out and set it back in the box. Then, using the incredibly bright little candle he located the first match he'd dropped.

Once he had everything set up he pulled out the journal and set a hand on its cover. It was in good condition, although he got the impression that it was very old. He'd never owned anything so nice before- He knew it was leather, and the only other thing he'd ever known of leather was Uncle Vernon's wallet, which the man took an unprecedented amount of pride in.

Using the blunt end of a green crayon he wrote the letter "H," for Harry. The journal absorbed the pigment, seemed to mull over it, then scrawled across the page a series of words that he couldn't recognize. At length the green ran out and changed to blue.

Mesmerized, Harry drew another "H" and traced a finger over the resulting flurry of information. How desperately he wished to understand it. He even considered asking his cousin to teach him- he'd seen Dudley proudly presenting his parents with cards from school. They were filled with large, mysterious writing, and little drawings, and stickers. The journal had ceased its flow of words, and Harry drew a few shapes on the blank pages before tucking it away. Hiding the crayons and matches, he blew out the tea light.

S

Pre-school was the most terrifying thing that had ever happened to him.

There was a lot of sneering and glaring from Vernon, and grimacing from Petunia, and crying from Dudley. Apparently they had acquired his paperwork, and were deeply unhappy about it. For several days his Aunt dragged him by the wrist from place to place, and cursed under her breath in the car, and used her most distressingly sweet tone when talking to the people they met. It was all very new to him.

The first day that he was left there he thought he would die. The only people he'd ever really known were his relatives and Mrs. Figg (and Mrs. Figg's cats). And yet Aunt Petunia had abandoned him on the threshold without a moments hesitance. Terrified, he stood in the doorway watching other children laugh and run around and pull things off shelves and out from buckets. A girl in the corner was eating glitter.

A very tall lady with short brown hair noticed him and said "Hello, do you need something?" He stared at her and, to his horror, felt the prickling of tears. She crouched down next to him. "What class are you from?" He opened his mouth and closed it. He couldn't have answered her if he'd wanted to.

He jumped when someone from behind laid a hand on his shoulder. "This is Harry," came the voice of another woman. "He's the one who's starting late, Dudley's cousin."

"Oh yes," the tall lady replied. "They get to stay together," and they talked for several minutes while Harry's heart became tighter and heavier. It didn't help that the hand on his shoulder remained. He scanned the room again and locked eyes with Dudley, who was glaring at him and saying something to the children around him. Several of them turned to stare at him with wide eyes and open mouths.

The hand left his shoulder, and the tall lady smiled down at him. "Harry? My name is Mrs. Karen, and I'm your new teacher."

He simply didn't know what to say. Undeterred, indeed, in apparent understanding, Mrs. Karen explained the room to him, assigned him a desk, and then told him to play with the other children. He'd never played with other children before, and he didn't really feel like it at the moment.

He forlornly inspected a box full of wooden blocks. Despite being told to play, he couldn't quite believe it was allowed. Yes, he decided, surely it was only a nicety. Of course he wasn't actually supposed to touch anything. A girl with pigtails ran up to him, gaped, then said in a rush "Hi I'm Anne do you want to play house?"

The answer was no. Before he could say as much, the girl was pressing a big felt hat into his hands and saying "You'll be the dad, and I'll be the mom."

Two others were recruited to play the son and the pet dog (over which resulted a spectacular fight), then Harry was standing nervously next to a small plastic kitchen. Anne hummed and asked Harry what he wanted for dinner.

"We have peas," she held up a plastic representation of peas, "And chicken," a leg, "and bacon, and butter."

Was he supposed to eat the plastic? Or did those things really taste like food? "Umm," and how would they be cooked? "I'm not hungry."

"Pretend to be hungry," she insisted, and then shoved the peas, chicken, bacon, and butter into the tiny microwave. The door didn't quite shut all the way, so she held it closed and made beeping noises with her mouth.

Alarmed, Harry cut in, "That's not how you cook those!" He tried to open the little door, and the girl turned wide eyes on him.

"What?"

"You don't-" Harry stammered, "Peas have to be boiled, and chicken cooked in the oven. And you only eat bacon for breakfast."

"Don't be stupid," she said, "it's just pretend."

Their "son" was building a round structure out of blocks nearby, and suddenly looked up and shouted, "I'm hungry." Their "dog" was nowhere to be found.

His heart was suddenly beating too fast. It was one thing for his uncle to call him names, and another completely for this- _girl,_ who was a stranger, and his own age, and a member of this new room where he apparently belonged.

A bell rang and before anything more could be said or done, Mrs. Karen was calling for quiet. "Play time's over everyone, now we're going to sit in a circle for story time." All of the kids rushed to the opposite end of the room, chattering and finding seats around a blackboard. He followed them and sat near the back. Anne refused to look his way.

Dudley wasted no time establishing the pecking order. There were initial overtures of friendship made towards Harry, but his classmates soon learned that he was more trouble than he was worth.

"He eats erasers," Dudley was loudly telling anyone who would listen, "and he lives under the stairs, 'cause only real families get rooms and toys, and... and he-" Harry frowned from his corner as he watched Dudley scrunch up his face, struggling to imagine the worst possible things to say.

"What else does he eat?"

Dudley grasped onto the thread, "All kinds of gross stuff- dirt, and rocks, and bugs-" here some of the children gazed over at Harry in a mixture of disgust and awe, which quickly turned to revulsion when Dudley proclaimed "-and he eats poop! We have to be careful to flush the toilets, or he'll eat it all."

A chorus of "ews" ensued, and for the rest of the day Harry was asked whether, why, and how he went about it. The worst though was when Mrs. Karen overheared and gave a lecture on hygiene and proper eating habits.

**S**

"Harry, do you want to play with us?"

The answer was _no_ , but at this point he wasn't sure if he wanted to offend them. "What are you playing?"

"You have to find the feathers. And whoever finds the most, wins."

Two others had been recruited, and all they needed was for Harry to join in. So much was made clear to him, and he reluctantly agreed. No timer or separate instructions were set, and he poked about the room. He looked through the bins of toys, and in the cubbies, and underneath a few floor mats. He even checked the drawers where the napkins and towels were kept.

At last the boy who'd initiated the game called for a finish, and the four of them gathered at a neutral table. The boy (Todd, Harry realized) was holding a bright blue feather between his fingers, while the others were as prizeless as himself. Nervous and disheartened, Harry gave one last half hearted look beneath the table they'd gathered around and Todd shouted in sudden, loud, frightening accusation, "Hey, that's cheating!"

Which, of course, drew the attention of most of the class. An ominous silence ensued, broken only when Dudley waddled forth and said, "Harry cheated? On what?"

"He cheated," Todd insisted, "on our game."

Thereafter the rumors that Harry ate poop were replaced with the well known fact that Harry was a cheater, and no one asked him to play with them anymore.

Kindergarten progressed much in the same manor, punctuated with lessons on the alphabet, and numbers, and colors and shapes. He had trouble with months, but made up for it with his knowledge of the weekday song- And who needed months when they could count life day-to-day? Dudley brought home stories of Harry's unpopularity, and of how he cheated in every game.

Harry wasn't quite sure what cheating was, or how he'd done it, but resolved that he'd avoid it at all costs. When uncle Vernon glared at him and grimaced and grumbled derogatory remarks, Harry silently compared them to his classmates opinion of him, weighing their validity.

First grade saw the rise of one of the worst alliances in history. Dudley met his intellectual, physical, and emotional match;

Piers Polkiss.

A heavy set boy with watery blue eyes and thick, coarse blonde hair, Piers was the kind of boy who instilled a sense of We-Have-Failed-You in his guardians, and What-did-I-do-to-Deserve-This? in his classmates.

It was several years yet before 'Harry Hunting' would be invented, but it was certainly a beginning.


	3. No Name

  
Author's notes: Harry meets a snake  


* * *

**S**

The Dursleys asleep, tea light lit, and journal out, Harry was too excited for words. Although, words he had, several infact. His teacher had been perplexed at his enthusiasm to learn. She'd seemed concerned even, but when he explained that he had a friend with whom he could only communicate by writing, she'd been more than happy to provide him with charts and books containing the basics. His heart had leapt when she'd suggested after school tutoring, but of course the Dursleys hadn't approved of the idea. Like they would drive all the way to the school just to pick him up after hours.

He also had a set of pencils, courtesy of the school, which made significantly better writings tools than crayons. He'd spent weeks perfecting what to write, and how to write the letters according to the rules. With one hand on the thick pages, he could almost feel a stirring of recognition.

_Hello,_ he wrote. _I am Harry Potter._

The journal gave pause, as though it were tasting the graphite. Then, as always, the words disappeared. Harry leaned closer, gripped with anticipation. He'd been waiting for so long to communicate with the journal. He'd slept countless nights with the pages pressed to his chest, warmth emanating from them when it was bitingly cold, and a cool comfort when the summer heat refused to abate. For a moment Harry was worried that pencils didn't work, but then the gray letters reappeared.

_Hello Harry. I'm Tom Riddle._ At "Riddle" the words changed back to crayon. _I am very curious about you. I am also very proud. How old are you?_

It took him awhile to sound out all of the words, but he did, at length, and then something very terrible happened. He started to cry. He had managed not to in so long, and he wiped his nose on his sleeve and covered his face and tried very hard not to make any sound. In the end he buried his face in the pillow and only let out a few painful hiccups. When the hiccups faded to the occasional sharp breath he glanced back at the journal.

_Harry?_

He quickly located his pencil, reread the conversation, and wrote _Six,_ in the proper way his teacher had shown him. Then for good measure, and because he could, he wrote _I am six years old._

_You are very good at writing for a six year old. Where did you get the crayons from?_

Once again he had to take some time to understand what Tom wrote (and he savored the idea of the name- it was one thing to read "Tom Marvolo Riddle," and another to read _"I am Tom Riddle."_ ) He was a bit perplexed by the question, and then embarrassed. He wasn't accustomed to telling lies, but never before had he wanted to tell a lie so badly. Stealing was the worst thing a person could do, followed by lying.

The first time he'd told a lie had been over something stupid, a toy that belonged to Dudley. He'd taken it and hidden it under his cot, and Dudley had seen him take it. His cousin had cried fat tears and begged Vernon to retrieve it. When Vernon had rounded on Harry, asking if it were true, Harry had lied. It was more for the principle of the thing, than for the toy itself. Regardless, his uncle had found the toy, knocked Harry round the middle, then locked him in the cupboard for almost two days.

_I got them from my family._

He noticed with a sense of dread that the letters were more wobbly than he'd intended. Only, unlike in the classroom where he could write the sentence over and over again, the journal responded immediately.

_You are lying. Did you steal them?_

Just when he thought he had his breathing under control, he started to hyperventilate again, and a tear fell on the coarse paper, staining it dark. The journal actually shivered in his hands and absorbed the liquid, and wrote in a beautiful but legible script, It's alright. I stole many things when I was young.

Harry sniffed. Despite not knowing if the journal was telling the truth or not, (who'd ever admit to stealing?) he was suddenly very relieved.

_Why wouldn't you use a quill?_

He didn't recognize the word. But then, there were still a lot of words he didn't know.

_What is a quill?_

He waited, but no more words were forthcoming. After several minutes he tried writing _Hello_ again, but still Tom said nothing. He would have waited all night, but the brief bout of tears had exhausted him, and with the open journal on his pillow, and the pencil clutched in his hand, he fell asleep.

**S**

The Dursleys asleep, tea light lit, and journal out, Harry was too excited for words. Although, words he had, several infact. His teacher had been perplexed at his enthusiasm to learn. She'd seemed concerned even, but when he explained that he had a friend with whom he could only communicate by writing, she'd been more than happy to provide him with charts and books containing the basics. His heart had leapt when she'd suggested after school tutoring, but of course the Dursleys hadn't approved of the idea. Like they would drive all the way to the school just to pick him up after hours.

He also had a set of pencils, courtesy of the school, which made significantly better writings tools than crayons. He'd spent weeks perfecting what to write, and how to write the letters according to the rules. With one hand on the thick pages, he could almost feel a stirring of recognition.

_Hello,_ he wrote. _I am Harry Potter._

The journal gave pause, as though it were tasting the graphite. Then, as always, the words disappeared. Harry leaned closer, gripped with anticipation. He'd been waiting for so long to communicate with the journal. He'd slept countless nights with the pages pressed to his chest, warmth emanating from them when it was bitingly cold, and a cool comfort when the summer heat refused to abate. For a moment Harry was worried that pencils didn't work, but then the gray letters reappeared.

_Hello Harry. I'm Tom Riddle._ At "Riddle" the words changed back to crayon. _I am very curious about you. I am also very proud. How old are you?_

It took him awhile to sound out all of the words, but he did, at length, and then something very terrible happened. He started to cry. He had managed not to in so long, and he wiped his nose on his sleeve and covered his face and tried very hard not to make any sound. In the end he buried his face in the pillow and only let out a few painful hiccups. When the hiccups faded to the occasional sharp breath he glanced back at the journal.

_Harry?_

He quickly located his pencil, reread the conversation, and wrote _Six,_ in the proper way his teacher had shown him. Then for good measure, and because he could, he wrote _I am six years old._

_You are very good at writing for a six year old. Where did you get the crayons from?_

Once again he had to take some time to understand what Tom wrote (and he savored the idea of the name- it was one thing to read "Tom Marvolo Riddle," and another to read _"I am Tom Riddle."_ ) He was a bit perplexed by the question, and then embarrassed. He wasn't accustomed to telling lies, but never before had he wanted to tell a lie so badly. Stealing was the worst thing a person could do, followed by lying.

The first time he'd told a lie had been over something stupid, a toy that belonged to Dudley. He'd taken it and hidden it under his cot, and Dudley had seen him take it. His cousin had cried fat tears and begged Vernon to retrieve it. When Vernon had rounded on Harry, asking if it were true, Harry had lied. It was more for the principle of the thing, than for the toy itself. Regardless, his uncle had found the toy, knocked Harry round the middle, then locked him in the cupboard for almost two days.

_I got them from my family._

He noticed with a sense of dread that the letters were more wobbly than he'd intended. Only, unlike in the classroom where he could write the sentence over and over again, the journal responded immediately.

_You are lying. Did you steal them?_

Just when he thought he had his breathing under control, he started to hyperventilate again, and a tear fell on the coarse paper, staining it dark. The journal actually shivered in his hands and absorbed the liquid, and wrote in a beautiful but legible script, It's alright. I stole many things when I was young.

Harry sniffed. Despite not knowing if the journal was telling the truth or not, (who'd ever admit to stealing?) he was suddenly very relieved.

_Why wouldn't you use a quill?_

He didn't recognize the word. But then, there were still a lot of words he didn't know.

_What is a quill?_

He waited, but no more words were forthcoming. After several minutes he tried writing _Hello_ again, but still Tom said nothing. He would have waited all night, but the brief bout of tears had exhausted him, and with the open journal on his pillow, and the pencil clutched in his hand, he fell asleep.


	4. No Name, Part 2

  
Author's notes: Part two of chapter three, because it wouldn't post all of it for some reason.  


* * *

S

"Words are a gift." His teacher said, stalking between the desks and taking a hand held game from a boy who'd been playing it in his lap.

"You'll get it back at the end of class," she said, and then stood up front and wrote on the board "Language is the dress of thought."–Samuel Johnson

"Can anyone tell me what this means?"

The class was silent. Harry read the words several times over before deeply considering them. While the word "dress" inevitably conjured horrid paisley and floral images associated with his Aunt Petunia, he still understood the idea. For the first time in his life he felt like he had someone to express his thoughts to. The morning after his first real contact with Tom, despite the rather shaky introduction, he'd woken up happy. Happier, perhaps, than he'd ever been. All through breakfast and chores and school he'd been ecstatic, unable to sit still in class. The ride home had taken forever. And then he'd arrived, and the happy high had receded, replaced by a widening sense of apprehension. That night he'd sat in his cupboard, the journal in his lap, unopened, for a long time. After much deliberation he decided that he had to check eventually, and surely Tom would write back. He _had_ to. It couldn't be any other way. And he'd opened to the first page, blank, and before his eyes sprung the words _Hello Harry._

S

The bus dropped him off at the corner of Private Drive and Wisteria Walk, and Harry lagged behind his cousin. He wouldn't normally (Dudley was a dreadfully slow waddler), but Petunia was always waiting for their arrival, and Heaven forbid Harry get home first. He didn't understand it, but his life was like that.

Dudley got the best of everything. Toys, parties, clothes, food. Dudley could do anything, say anything, and cry to his hearts content. Harry, on the other hand, was allowed nothing (although his relatives insisted that he was extraordinarily privileged, indeed they were constantly making sacrifices for him). He didn't have any toys, his clothes were hand-me-downs, and he wasn't entirely sure when his birthday was. He had been positively astounded to learn that his name was more than just 'Harry.' On the first day of fist grade he'd been addressed as Harry _Potter,_ and a great deal of confusion had ensued.

He didn't cry. He used to, when he was little, and Petunia or Vernon would pound on the wall of his cupboard, and sometimes Dudley would laugh at him through the door and call him a _cry baby,_ which was utterly absurd, but he didn't cry. Not anymore. He was six years old, soon to be a second grader, and it just wasn't done. Not when he got time out for something that Dudley started, or when his relatives left him with smelly Mrs. Figg, or even when he was grounded to the cupboard with no food, and Dudley and Piers tried to shove bugs through the cracks, and talked about smoking him out.

Petunia was, as always, waiting in the doorway for them. She hugged Dudley and asked him about his day. Harry slipped inside behind them, closed the door, and headed to the kitchen for his list of after school chores. He hated chores, but found it was easier to just do them and have them done. He organized them so that he'd finish off either in the garden or an area of the house that was momentarily unoccupied, that way he usually went unnoticed. Otherwise he'd simply be assigned more.

After scrubbing out the sink and polishing the stove, he peered down the main entryway. It was yet too early for dinner, and he had the sneaking suspicion that they were going to eat out tonight. Tonight of all nights was Not a Good Night. He had plans, and an appointment to make, and he couldn't have the Dursleys sending him down the street.

Harry knew how to read. He was fairly adept at it, in fact. His relatives were upset when they'd met with his teacher (an old Mrs. Brown) and told that while Harry was an excellent student, there was much to be desired in Dudley, both academically and behaviorally.

Dudley had many friends, but "didn't play well" with everyone, in particular his cousin whom he was "downright manipulative" towards. Harry had been physically punished after that particular Parent Teacher Meeting.

Sure that the coast was clear, he darted into his cupboard. Striking up a match. he lit a much burned down tea light and retrieved Tom Riddle's Diary.

_Hello,_ he wrote. _I might have to go later, so I won't be able to write tonight._

The diary responded immediately. _Where are you going?_

_Mrs. Figg's, my family is eating out._

_Why do you call them that?_

_What else would I call them?_

There was a thumping on the stairs above him, and judging by the weight and gait he guessed it was Vernon. He quickly re-hid the diary, blew out the light, and laid on his bed.

The heavy footsteps came to a pause outside his door, then Vernon was glaring angrily at him and Harry did his best to pretend to be startled from a nap. "Boy," he said in the You're-up-to-Mischief-and-I-Know-it voice.

"Sir?"

Then Vernon retracted his head and grunted "We're going out to eat. Get ready to leave."

Relieved, Harry slipped on his trainers and went to wait in the front entryway. It only took him a minute to get ready, but it would probably be fifteen before they actually left. If he wasn't waiting and ready the whole time, then any tardiness would be blamed on him. Things were often blamed on him, whether he was the cause or not. It was hard to believe that he wasn't just as useless and ungrateful and stupid as his relatives claimed him to be. The diary helped a lot. Tom was always full of kind things to say (and mean ones about the Dursleys), and he made a lot of sense when he talked to Harry, whereas the Dursleys had never seemed very grounded in reality.

Any hope he had that Mrs. Figg would be indisposed was dashed when he heard his aunt on the phone with her, bartering for her time. Ten minutes later they were in the car, and Harry was mentally preparing himself for the smell-sight-sound combo of the weird cat lady's house.

**S**

There were figurines lining shelves and windowsills, and in the center of the sitting room stood a massive tiered cabinet. Every surface was covered with little dolls; men and women, children, _cats,_ teacups, and he swore he caught sight of a gnome, on occasion.

He wouldn't normally take note of these things, but they were always in different places when he visited. And while the thought of an old lady arranging her knick knacks wasn't unusual, Mrs. Figg had enough of them to open up a gift shop. And, try as he might, Harry could never catch one in the same spot it'd been in last time. It was a strange business, but, Harry supposed, it wasn't like she had a job. And she'd never shown him any pictures of grandchildren, or friends. Just _cats._

The little statues unsettled him a bit, when he'd been over for several hours and it was dark outside. Every one of them had at least two eyes, most of which were painted with a gloss of some sort.

A very old and very fat cat gave a yowl near his feet, and Harry hesitantly reached down to scratch behind it's ears. The cat let out a rip-roar purr and butted it's head against his legs.

"Breadsticks likes you." Mrs. Figg observed absently. She was sipping tea from a cracked cup and watching Harry.

Pondering over the moniker, he came to the conclusion that the cat was named after the amount of grease in it's fur. A cup of tea sat near him with much too much milk in it. Deeper in the house a clock ticked by the time (kicked by, really, it was a man with long legs that swung back and forth), and Harry tried to imagine at what point in the driving/dinner/driving schedule the Dursleys were at. Surely they were on their way back by now.

Repressing a sigh he leaned into a rather lumpy cushion and willed the cat at his feet to stay at his feet. It was getting colder outside, and he'd made a very strange discovery. He'd planned on telling Tom tonight, had infact teased the journal that morning with promises of something groundbreaking. At the moment, though, he was feeling a bit bad about it.

He half expected Mrs. Figg to start humming, just to fill the silence (she'd already showed him through all of her albums, and reintroduced each of her living feline companions). Instead she sat in silence, still.

At some point his eyes drifted shut, and the memory of yesterday replayed itself in his head.

It was cold, the first really cold day of November, and the last of the flowers had finished their run. Harry was in the back, cutting down the perennials and pulling up anything that wouldn't grow back. His hands were sore from tugging on stems and leaves and roots, and he was sweating despite the cold.

His breaths left little clouds in the air and he watched them with mild fascination as he rested behind the Magnolia tree. He was leaning against it with his head tilted up when he heard a small but unmistakably clear voice.

_"Cold, cold, cold."_

A jolt of fear went down his spine, and he sat strait up. Not sure if he should greet whoever was in the yard or bolt for the backdoor, he listened for any sign of movement.

_"So cold, cold, cold."_

And frowned. He could hear the voice, but there was a strange quality to it, almost as though he were hearing it from a great distance, distorted. He waited for an indefinite amount of time before getting up and looking about. And it was the strangest thing, but there was no one around. Certainly not anyone who was particularly small, or particularly cold (aside from himself).

"Hello?" He called, wondering if perhaps the person had left very quietly. Then it occurred to him that the person might be on the other side of the fence, so he crawled behind the bushes lining the cedar wall and gazed through each hole he came along, trying to spy anyone on the other side.

He'd nearly made a circuit around the yard before the voice spoke again, quite nearby in fact, causing him to start very badly.

_"Don't come any closer!"_

Frozen, wide-eyed, he gazed down at a very irritated black and green snake. Then, without a second thought, he asked _"Are you alright?"_

_"No,"_ the snake responded, _"I am very cold, and you will eat me."_

He wasn't planning on eating the snake (the thought was actually quite disgusting), but he didn't say that. It wasn't everyday one had a conversation with a wild animal, and he didn't want to offend the already irate serpent. Not even by insinuating that he was utterly repulsed by the idea of eating the little guy.) _"I'm not hungry,"_ he said instead, _"and I'm not really a meat eater."_ True only because the Dursleys didn't like to waste good meat on him. _"I am pretty warm, though. If you don't mind, I could carry you around for awhile."_

The snake seemed to ponder this for a moment and then, with a funny little swaying of it's head, said "I would be amicable to that."

Harry smiled and gingerly lifted the snake off the ground, awed by the sleekness and hardness of it's tiny body. Which was quite cold, and long enough to wrap around his hand twice.

_"My name's Harry, what's yours?"_

_"No name,"_ the snake said, and for a second Harry though that "No name" was the snake's name.

_"You have to have a name,"_ he said. _"Everyone does."_

_"No name."_ the snake insisted, and then slid up his sleeve to rest around his elbow.

The doorbell rang, startling Harry from his semi-sleep.

"Ah, that will be the Dursleys. Still with us, Harry?"

He blinked groggily at old Mrs. Figg, then nodded. "Yeah."

She walked him to the door, one frail hand resting on his shoulder. Vernon was waiting, pink faced in the dim lighting of the porch, and Harry shivered at the cold that swept in like a beast from the dark. As much as he wanted to be at home in his cupboard, he dreaded the ride. It would be simple for him to walk back to Number 4 (pondering it, he couldn't decide which scenario he favored less), but the Dursleys wouldn't be seen acting inhospitable in public.

Which is surely why when Mrs. Figg asked "Harry, did you bring a coat?" Uncle Vernon grimaced and, much in the manner of a pig being poked, said "You know how boys are."

The ride back was utterly silent, the Dursleys giving off a satisfied glow, and Harry tried to figure out what his uncle had meant. He understood that somehow he wasn't supposed to want a coat, but eyeing his cousin who was snuggly wrapped in layers of wool and cashmere, he couldn't help but think that Mrs. Figg saw right threw the entire thing.

**S**

He woke the next morning to the sharp wrap of Aunt Petunia's knuckles, the sign that it was time to get up, get fed, and get out. The sound never failed to startle him, and he sunk down into the thin mattress, for a moment, and savored the warmth emanating from the journal. When he was still so close to dreaming, and in the utter darkness of the small room, he could almost sense a humming from the pages. And then he sat up, rubbed his eyes, and went to make breakfast.

School was miserable. The Dursleys utterly failed to see any fault in their son's abysmal markings, or the fact that he got into fights regularly, or even that he was getting fatter. Vernon simply commented that Dudley was a growing boy with strong ideals and it couldn't be helped if other children were sometimes threatened by Dudley's strong sense of leadership. Petunia called him "Big Boned," and tutted over how only specialty stores had the foresight to make clothes for boys like her son, and not just the wraiths of modern fashion. It was a wonder, Harry thought, that he was the one who was singled out.

"No name" was waiting just outside the backdoor, coiled up underneath a dead rosebush. Checking that the coast was clear, Harry stuck his head out the door and hissed, _"Snake? Are you still here?"_

"Yes," came the groggy reply.

The snake had insisted upon remaining outside, as much as it seemed to enjoy Harry's overlarge pockets. Apparently the house frightened it.

_"I have to go soon, and I won't be back for awhile. Are you sure you want to stay out here?"_

_"Will it be safe?"_ The snake replied, and Harry recognized hesitance in it's little voice. He couldn't help the smile that overtook his lips, and wondered a bit at how good it felt.

_"Yes,"_ He said in what he hoped what a reassuring tone. _"You can stay in my warm pockets all day, I promise that no one will try to eat you."_

It wasn't that he wanted to push the snake into a situation it would be uncomfortable in (after all, who better could relate to wanting to avoid predators on the playground?) but it was like having a friend, and something inside of him desperately wanted to protect and provide for his new friend.

Harry scooped "No name" up and loosed him into a pocket before the snake could give a definitive response, just in time to turn and meet the disapproving gaze of his aunt.

"Close that door, you're letting all the cold air in," she snapped, and started to put place settings on the table.

Harry let out half a breath, coughed, and tried to calm his suddenly wild heartbeat. Filled with exhilaration and fear, he daydreamed about just how he'd hide his new friend from everyone.

The first snow of the year brought with it an air of revelation. Harry'd had little time between his school work and house work to write to Tom, and the last tea light had burnt out. Petunia hadn't seemed to notice, and didn't buy more, and Harry was at a loss. He couldn't ask her to buy more, and he couldn't find any other way to obtain them. He'd scribbled off a brief explanation to Tom, and had otherwise no time alone.

With the holidays approaching he wondered what would make appropriate gifts for a snake and a diary. The Dursleys were always so meticulous about sending proper baskets of fruits and pies and Thank You Merry Christmas cards to certain people. Harry himself had never had the need to do so, and suspected that none of the regular rules applied in his case, anyways.

So while he couldn't write to Tom, and while his little snake companion insisted it didn't understand why it should need a gift at all (but fat locusts were nice), Harry scrubbed and toiled and tried to figure just how and what he could obtain for his friends.

He thought that maybe Tom would say, _Don't be silly, Harry,_ followed by something very nice about how his company was enough. As far as locusts go, he didn't think he'd be finding any hopping around. Thus far he'd fed his snake a couple of crickets from the loo (how they found their way into the house he'd never know), and then the spiders from his cupboard, which the snake described as "dry and sour."

Laying on his cot in the dark, he nibbled glumly on the edge of a cracker. He'd stock piled them for awhile, thinking that he'd be sharing them with No name, and had been told off rather spectacularly. How was he supposed to know that snakes preferred bugs to chips?

He reached over and felt the comforting scales of his friend, and gently ran his knuckles up and down. The little snake tolerated this from time to time, and while Harry liked to imagine it was like scratching a cat under the chin, he'd also been informed (haughtily) that it was a useless gesture. Regardless, he liked the texture of the scales, and absently traced around them with the tips of his nails.

It was very strange. And it made him sad, a little, when he allowed it to. As much as he wanted friends, he couldn't imagine playing with his classmates, or laughing with a family. Everywhere he went he sized up strangers, wondering what it would be like to talk with them, and be loved by them. Everywhere around him people had normal relationships with each other, relationships that made them smile and laugh and hug each other, hold hands, tell secrets. He watched them and thought, 'How could I ever be like that? Those people are not like me.'

And then he had Tom, and the snake. They were his friends, and his family. He told Tom his secrets (possibly one of the most satisfying and exciting things he'd ever done), and he taught the snake things about humans, and manners, and even how to count (although, like with gifts, No name had a great deal of trouble understanding the relevance of counting, and therefore gave it very little credit.)

He also spent a lot of time thinking about the journal. He'd always written it off as magic, and of course Tom was a real person. Without being able to talk to Tom every night, though, he started to see things differently. It was as though a filmy veil had been pulled off his head, and for the first time in his life he was seeing the world and it's inhabitants.

He'd grown up thinking that he inherently deserved the horrible things that the Dursleys said about him. He thought that there was something wrong with him, and naturally his parents were dead, because why would he deserve a real family? In his time alone in the dark he pondered the way the Dursleys skirted around his teachers with fake smiles and robust declarations. At some point between Tom's scorn and his teacher's hesitant concern, Harry realized that he wasn't exactly normal. The way his family treated him wasn't normal.

And writing to a book, imparting his deepest secrets to pages which sucked them up like sugared tea, wasn't normal.

These thoughts upset him. He tried not to think them. Instead he stroked little No name, and held the humming diary, and thought about what kind of presents one gets for a snake and a book.


	5. Wolf at the Door

  
Author's notes: christmas approaches.  


* * *

**S**

His relatives were out for the day- downtown watching the lights and carolers. It was one of those rare occasions when Mrs. Figg _didn't_ answer the phone, and the Dursleys were forced to leave him at home with the stern admonishment that he not get into anything. They locked him in the cupboard for good measure, but Harry had figured out how to open it some time ago. All it took was a bit of creative rattling. When the Dursleys _did_ come back, they'd go about their business for awhile, and not find it strange at all when they went to call on him and he came right out. He guessed they assumed that someone else had undone the lock.

Regardless, he took the opportunity to sit in the kitchen windowsill (something he was never allowed to do) and write to Tom. Snow was rushing towards the window in eddies, like giant arms and hands and fingers collapsing against the house. He watched the fading daylight catch on the frozen crystals and then dance away. 

_Do you know what snow is?_ He wrote.

_Of course I know what snow is, why wouldn't I?_

His heart jumped at that. He had yet to come out and ask Tom if he had been a real person (oddly enough, the tale of the _Swan Princess_ came to mind). He thought it was a bit rude, and good manners were the foundation of good relationships (so said his teachers and Aunt Petunia). 

_You are real then,_ he wrote, and then stared at the words as they faded. They'd escaped him before he could really think about how earnestly he meant them.

The journal exuded what could only be described as silent laughter, and Harry smiled as the response appeared, letters just as neat and precise as ever. _Actually, I meant to ask something. You are alone, correct?_

_Yes._

_Well, you told me not so long ago about the strange incident with your hair, do you remember?_

_Yes._ Harry replied, perplexed.

_I was wondering if there have been similar incidences. I have a theory about you, one that I desperately hope is true._

He paused. Tom's words would not fade until he'd responded, unlike his own which seeped into the paper (and somewhere far, far down) immediately. He understood what Tom wanted, but as he tried to grasp at the idea he found the details slipping away. And then he was second guessing what Tom meant at all. At length he set the pencil to the paper and wrote (what he thought was safe) _Freakish things happen to me all the time._

The pages were a very richly texture cream, he realized, as he held them in the light of the window. The snow was so bright, but also very gray. He traced the edge of one (he had opened it that day to a page near the back, no need for starting anywhere particular, and he thought to ask Tom if he preferred any certain page to the others).

_I'm sure that is not an apt description. Please tell me some of the things that might have been perceived by others as "freakish."_

He was extraordinarily reluctant to do any such thing. He wasn't allowed to talk about... well, anything, really, but particularly things that were weird, and especially things that were weird and related to him.

_I promise I won't judge you. We're friends, right?_

With a furtive glance about the house (a useless gesture truly, he'd be very aware when the Dursleys returned), he frowned and wrote _There are bad things. I can't help it, stuff just happens to me._

_Examples, Harry._

_Well... one time when I really didn't want to take a bath the water came out and sprayed my Aunt Petunia, instead of me. And sometimes things I really want will disappear and then show up in my cupboard, and I don't remember putting them there. And I made a friend, a few days ago, named No name, only his name isn't really No name, because he's a snake and he doesn't have a name. Could you think of a good one?_

Tom's response astounded Harry- it was delayed, and then written in a jumble. The first few words were dark as though the quill (a bird feather, Tom had explained) were being pressed roughly to the page. _A snake? Is it a real snake, or an imaginary one?_

Harry frowned. _A real one. That's what I wanted to tell you, by the way. I found him in the garden. He was really cold so I've been keeping him in the cupboard with us._

The journal cooled and then heated in his hands, but otherwise made no response. 

_He's asleep inside my other pants,_ Harry wrote, _if you want to meet him. But I don't think he could write to you._

_No._ Tom replied. The simple word was elegant, contemplative. And then it was followed by _Harry, tell me again what you remember of your parents._

Harry hesitated. He didn't really like to think about them, the idea that he'd ever had parents twisted his gut and made him reticent. He didn't really know how to deny Tom, though. He couldn't outright refuse, and he couldn't lie- the journal had an uncanny ability to sense lies, even ones that Harry wasn't entirely aware of telling.

_I don't know,_ he wrote. _I can't remember them, but my aunt and uncle said that they died in a car crash, and that they were lazy and good for nothing._

The words left, Tom said; _A very long time ago I knew a family by the name of Potter, and they belonged to a secret and powerful community. I joined this community when I was eleven. I can't be certain Harry, a long time has passed since then, but I believe that you may be a member of that family._

His heart caught in his throat. He reread the words. He couldn't think- and then the lump in his throat hitched and the idea burst up like a bird through his mind. Like the dreams he'd had in the dead of night, like the fairytales they read in school, like the idea that he had a secret friend that no one else could ever meet. His heart beat, and the sensation changed. Was Tom real? Weren't dreams just illusions? _(In the end, didn't the prince leave the princess to die?)_ And Tom had not yet said if it were alright. 

_I lived in an orphanage. I was smarter than the other children, and I too could make strange things happen. I learned very quickly how to hurt the people who hurt me, without leaving any evidence. I was three the first time I talked to a snake. Her name was Marla, and she was murdered by one of the orphanage matrons._

_I was introduced to the world of magic when I was eleven. It is my home, and will be yours too, in time. I do not know how it has come about, but you are living with people whom we refer to as "muggles," or non-magic folk. The strange things we can do are inspired by magic, which we possess inherently. The magic in our blood sets us apart and above muggles. We are a superior breed of human._

_Harry, you are superior to them. It is deeply wrong that you have lived life at the mercy of your relatives, if they are really even related to you._

Harry was stunned. Shocked. _Flummoxed,_ he thought for some reason, but didn't question it. Surprisingly, he didn't question any of it. Instead he leaned back and took in the words, over and over, wondering if he could keep them, memorized them. He suddenly needed to read more, and weakly he wrote, _Tell me more._

_The Potters were an old family, nearly as old as my own. They had old money that had compiled and multiplied in Gringotts, the Wizarding Bank, for centuries. If you do belong to them, and if you are still going by the name of Potter, then you probably aren't a bastard child. That means you should be entitled to some of that money. I do not know why you would be living with these low class muggles. You also shouldn't be able to talk to snakes,_ Tom was writing faster now, _that is a bloodline trait which should have died with my family... unless you're somehow_

And there the words stopped. Try as he might, Harry couldn't understand any of what Tom had just written, and the information upset him, suddenly, for reasons he didn't understand. 

_Balthamos._ Tom said.

_What?_

_Name him Balthamos. Your snake. He'll like it._

And then there came the telltale crunching of snow and gravel from the driveway, and Harry dove from the counter, nearly tripping in the sink, clutching the journal to his chest, and slid into his cupboard just as the dark forms of his relatives appeared at the door.

**S**

Things got darker around the holidays. Of course, there was literally less daylight, but there was also a tension in the air. When walking to the house after school he eyed the shadows around buildings and hedges, a nagging dread telling him to quicken his pace, and avoid strangers. A Christmas tree went up in the living room, and Harry watched from the stairwell as Vernon fixed it into place. Then Petunia was wrapping it with endless strands of tiny white lights, and delicately draping the branches with tinsel. Dudley hung bulbs and angels near the bottom, and was tutted at when he broke a box of glass snow flakes.

Harry watched them, but didn't participate. This was a tradition of theirs, to hang fixtures of holly and pine, and ribbons and baubles about the house. A wreath went up on the front door and the perpetual aroma of cinnamon and ginger wafted from the kitchen. Dudley rattled the presents that appeared beneath the tree each day, and every year it was a new entourage of boots and mittens, caps and long scarves.

He sat on a plushly carpeted step, feeling safe (it was like a long series of soft chairs for him) and watched them interact. As he inspected the glimmering wrapped gifts beneath the tree, he couldn't help but wonder at their contents, and then feel a sting of disappointment. He still hadn't found anything to present to Tom, or No name.

Balthamos, Harry reminded himself. He had yet to properly propose the name, and slid from his spot to creep into his cupboard. 

_“Snake?”_

_“Yessss?”_ Came the sleepy reply.

Harry grinned, _“It’s a bit early for it, but do you remember my other friend I told you about? The book named Tom?”_

_“Yes?”_ The small snake emerged from beneath Harry’s pillow, a curious tilt to it’s head.

Harry sat down next to it and lowered a hand in welcome. The snake wrapped around his palm and he smiled in glee. The familiarity never ceased to amaze and delight him. _“I’ve been thinking about what I could get you for Christmas, and Tom suggested a name for you. If you like it, then maybe it can be your gift?”_

_“I do not understand your convention for naming things.”_

Harry’s smile faltered a little. He thought it was a cool name, but maybe snakes really didn’t understand about such things.

The snake’s tongue flickered out and it slid up his arm. _“However,”_ it amended, _“I suppose a name would be nice. You have a name, after all, and you are well enough.”_

And just like that, he was grinning again. _“Balthamos. Do you like it?”_

The snake flicked out it’s tongue once more, then wrapped around his neck. _“Balthamos… what a lovely sound. Yes little one, I like it.”_

Harry carefully removed Balthamos to his bed, explaining that he still had chores to do, and then all but skipped off to the kitchen. One good thing about the hols was that he went entirely unnoticed.

**S**

They were making cards in school, and Harry was digging through a bin of markers to find the right color. What he wanted was green, but so far all of the ones he’d tried were dried out. The table cut sharply into his side when someone knocked into him from behind.

“Watch it, freak.” Dudley smirked at him and Harry glared. 

He heard laughter and glanced over to where Piers was sitting surrounded by a mess of glue and construction paper. The beady eyed boy made a threatening gesture with his hands and a couple of girls sitting next to him giggled. Harry looked down and found the perfect green he needed. After testing on his wrist (beautiful ink!) he returned to his own seat.

He was drawing on red paper, which changed the composition of color quite a bit, but to his eyes the green marker produced a perfect, socially acceptable green, and he painstakingly traced the outline of a tree. Once finished he contemplated how to decorate it. A star at the top, and red and gold ornaments were a must. He was rather excited when he realized that he could draw convincing candy-canes, and managed to push the panicking part of his mind away. The clenching in his gut, and the pain in his side diminished as he gripped the marker, focused intently upon the details of his drawing. Then, using his best handwriting (something Tom had been coaching him on relentlessly), he wrote “Merry Christmas Tom, love Harry.”

He was rather proud of it.

“Mr. Potter?”

His head snapped up and standing in the doorway was one of the office ladies. She was there each morning to award any tardy students with a most withering glare. 

“Yes?” His own voice sounded pathetic to him.

“You are scheduled for an appointment at the office.” She turned and Harry hurried to follow her. The woman was tall and dressed in denim- a long skirt and vest with horribly bright little characters stitched around the collar. She walked too fast for him, and he wondered what he did to require a personal escort from the one woman in the school that could be closely compared to a jailhouse warden. She held the door open for him and he stepped into the tiny entranced of the place where no student wants to be. The room was cramped, lined with overstuffed yet sparse furniture, and a huge potted poinsettia loomed at eye level. He stared at the bright red plant, trying to tell the difference between it’s leaves and flowers as Mrs. Jail Warden said something to him along the lines of him going somewhere.

“What?”

She sighed as though heavily put upon, and Harry looked down in shame.

“You have an appointment with the school counselor,” she said. “Mr. Silvern’s office is just through that door.”

He looked up as she gestured to a door on the right. Hesitantly he went to it, but before he could confirm that he was indeed to open it and enter, the woman had seated herself behind the counter and was rummaging through a stack of manila folders. He gripped the handle and turned, only to be met with a hall filled with more doors. It even connected to another hall at the end. He grimaced and stepped through- surely there would be someone he could ask for further assistance. There was no way he was asking Mrs. Jail Warden.

As he walked down the hall he passed a hand lightly over his pocket, drawing strength from the warm body within. Balthamos stirred, and he felt a little bit better.

He found the first open door and peered inside. A lady sat hunched over a desk near a large window, and the light coming from it made everything very white and clean looking.

“Hello?” It came out so quiet that he feared she wouldn’t hear him.

That was not the case, though, as she looked up and upon catching his eye flashed a brilliant smile. “Can I help you?”

“Um,” what was he here for? “I was supposed to… I have an appointment with the counselor.”

“Ah,” she said, and stood and led him further down the hall. She rapped smartly on a door and said to him “This is Mr. Silvern’s office, he speaks with the lower grade children such as yourself.”

He couldn’t help but wonder at the difference in demeanor between this woman and the other office lady. Harry actually gave her a shy smile as the door opened, which she acknowledged with a friendly nod. A tall man greeted them. His clothes seemed to hang from his body, despite being well fit, and he wore thick rimmed glasses.

“You must be Mr. Potter, come in.” And just like that he was sitting on a short couch, alone in a room with a strange older man. 

Harry watched as Mr. Silvern flipped through a notebook, pulled out several loose pages, pulled open a desk drawer and shifted around it’s contents, readjusted his glasses, and then shoved a stack of books aside to write something on a different pad of paper. Throughout all of this the man spoke slowly, as though his brain were forming the words separately from his preoccupied body.

“You were called down here today… after someone who was very concerned about you… suggested you talk to someone. This person cares a great deal… about your welfare… and-”

Harry hadn’t the faintest idea what the man was talking about. In fact, he was still certain that he was in trouble for something. It was a clever tactic, telling him that this was at the behest of someone he could trust. But what had he done? He wracked his brain for any outstanding incidences. He hadn’t gotten into any fights lately, nor had Dudley (it wouldn’t be the first time he was blamed for some mischief his cousin got up to). Maybe he was in trouble for something academic. But he’d been turning in all of his homework, and he even participated in the group projects they did now.

There had been a brief period when he stopped doing the work required of him. Tom taught him enough about writing, and the Dursleys didn’t care about his grades at all. The admonishment that his parents would expect him to do well in school meant absolutely nothing. His teacher had taken him aside and given him a very embarrassing speech about how smart he was and the wastefulness of laziness. There had also been a call to his relatives, and Vernon had (in the privacy of his own home) threatened to turn Harry out onto the streets if he didn’t, at the very least, fulfill his academic obligations.

_“Schooling costs a ruddy arm and leg! Ungrateful, that’s what you are!”_

Needless to say, that rebellion had been short lived.

“Do you know why you’re here, Mr. Potter?”

Harry looked up and realized, to his horror, that the man was regarding him from over the top of his spectacles with concern.

“No, sir.”

Mr. Silvern’s mouth hardened into a thin line and he tuned to sit so that he was facing Harry on the couch. “We thought that there might be something you wanted to talk about. It could be anything, your school work, friends, family life.”

Harry said nothing.

After a moment of silence, when it became perfectly clear that Harry wasn’t going to say anything, the man asked, “How do you like school?”

Suddenly, Harry was very confused about the entire situation. And something shifted in his mind and he realized that they _knew._ They knew that he was different, that there was something _wrong_ with him. 

_I have to lie,_ he thought. Without hardly knowing why, Harry smiled and said, “It’s alright. I like reading the books from the library.”

“Tell me about your friends.”

What did this man want to know? And what was Harry supposed to tell him? Somehow Harry got the impression the Mr. Silvern was aware that he didn’t have any friends, and the idea that this man was sitting in front of him, looking him in the eye, and trying to trick him… it made him angry. At least the Dursleys let him know when he’d done something wrong.

“They’re nice, but they don’t go here.” _I won’t tell him their names,_ “My cousin has a lot of friends though, and I play with them outside of school.”

Mr. Silvern frowned and glanced down at a sheet of paper in his lap. He adjusted his glasses again and asked, “How do you like your cousin? It must be hard living with your aunt and uncle. Not to mention there are several incidences on your record indicating that you and your cousin don’t always, ah- see eye to eye.”

What could he say to that? “No, sir.” What did grown-ups always want to hear? “But it’s alright. We always make up afterwards.”

The man gave him a smile, subtle, indulgent, and said, “You know Harry, you can tell me anything. Nothing said in this room leaves this room.”

So Mr. Silvern was after his secrets. Well.

“It also says here that you had a rough patch a few months ago- stopped doing your schoolwork? You weren’t sick, were you? It looks like you came to school.”

“No, sir. That was a misunderstanding.”

_Vernon wringing his giant pudgy hands and simpering at the teacher, “That was a misunderstanding, you know how boys are.”_

“Harry,” Mr. Silvern leaned closer to him, his head bowed just slightly and his voice serious, yet lilting just so with that lowered tone, sympathy, although Harry couldn’t name the strange emotion, “I know that boys your age have it hard; believe it or not, I was a boy once too! And that’s why I’m here. If you have any troubles, anything that you might want to get off your chest, I’m here to listen. And help, in any way I can.”

Hid heart thundered in his chest, and in that moment he wanted nothing more than to be locked safely in his cupboard, curled around his snake and the journal. “No, sir.” It came out small. His hand was pressed firmly to his thigh, covering Balthamos. He needed to lie better, he had to protect his friends, no one could know-

“Do you see well?”

He frowned. “Huh?”

“Your eyes, I noticed that you squint from time to time.” Mr. Silvern tapped his own thick frames, the motion humorous, “I believe the school gives tests once or twice a year, have you had your vision tested?”

“No?” Had he?

“Well, if there’s nothing else I can do for you, maybe you can talk to the school nurse about that.” He stood and laid a heavy hand on Harry shoulder. “It’s a short procedure,” he promised, “and completely painless, I’ll ask her for you. Come on.”

**S**

The school nurse turned out to be the nice lady he’d spoken to earlier. She asked him to read from different posters, and cover his eyes alternatively, and informed him that he was indeed in need of glasses. He didn’t get to see the Dursley’s reactions (who were called by the office), but when he got home a pair of round spectacles were waiting for him on the table. They made his head feel funny, and he didn’t like the rims which hovered like blinders at the corners of his vision. He wore them nonetheless.

He took to sneaking out in the middle of the night, the journal tucked between his skin and clothes, to write in the loo. Tom gave one long rant about the injustice of the situation, then vowed that one day he’d avenge Harry. Harry told him about the counselor, and the glasses, and the horrible office.

_The flower you described was probably a poinsettia, Tom wrote. Muggles have a tradition of displaying them this time of year, despite their toxic nature. Magic poinsettias can grow to enormous heights, are highly poisonous, and survive off of birds and small mammals. There are stories of them devouring the occasional child._

This frightened Harry, despite fascinating him, and the Office took on a whole new aspect of terror for him.

_As for the man you spoke to, you did very well in misleading him. The last thing we want is for you to be found out. It would probably be better if you left Balthamos here._

Harry replied, _But I’m afraid the Dursleys might find him. He wandered off the other day, and I had to call all around the house for him._

_Order him to stay put,_ Tom wrote, followed by _I’d instruct you how to distill a poison from the sap of poinsettia, but I’m afraid it’s highly traceable._

Hunched on the toilet, surrounded by sterile fluorescent light, Harry wondered why Tom would suggest such a thing. _Why would you do that?_

_To kill your relatives, of course._

He stared at the line for an indefinite amount of time before it clicked that Tom was suggesting he murder the Dursleys. _Are you crazy? I couldn’t kill them_

_Of course not,_ Tom interrupted him. _It was merely an observation. I was not suggesting you use poinsettia to kill them._

Harry sat for awhile longer, the ceramic bowl warming beneath him, and savored the feeling of the parchment paper against his skin.

_You need to be very careful._ Tom wrote.

Something about those words made him uneasy (or maybe it was just the night chill), and he bid goodnight to Tom.

Despite the risk he continued to bring Balthamos with him. The little snake was more than happy to sleep in his pocket all day. No one noticed him occasionally slip his hand inside, or the slight displacement of fabric. He had an overlarge jumper from Dudley (too small for his cousin, but positively enormous on him), that the snake compared to a dead ewe it had lived under for several days. Harry surmised that this was a good thing, but still made faces when he thought about it.


End file.
